Simon Moore's expression suddenly darkened again, and he said coldly, "The Qing dynasty is long gone—where do you think slaves come from? David Lewis, do you still think of yourself as a eunuch?"

This plump, fair-skinned middle-aged man had once been a eunuch in the imperial palace. After the fall of the Qing, some eunuchs remained in the palace, but most were dismissed and forced to make their own way. David Lewis was one of them. Wearing a bitter expression, David Lewis said, "No matter when, in front of Third Master, I am always your servant."

Simon Moore waved his hand impatiently. "Spit it out if you have something to say, and if you need to fart, do it quick. I have things to do!"

"Third Master, I was robbed at the City God Temple."

"Call the police! The French Concession police are fairly efficient."

"The money isn't the main thing. I lost the keepsake the Prince entrusted me to give to the Princess before he died."

Simon Moore slowly turned his head, his gaze as sharp as two blades, making David Lewis shiver to his core and lower his head in fear.

"Why haven't I heard you mention this before?"

"Because it didn't seem important, so I carelessly forgot. I just found out the Princess returned from France, so I rushed to see her. Who knew I'd run into a con artist at the City God Temple and got tricked before I realized it..."

Simon Moore pointed at David Lewis's right hand, signaling him to raise it.

As soon as David Lewis lifted his hand, Simon Moore pressed the scorching hot white-brass pipe bowl into his palm. The pain twisted David Lewis's plump face out of shape, and cold sweat the size of soybeans streamed down his forehead. Yet, intimidated by Simon Moore's authority, he dared not make a sound. Even as his palm cramped with pain, he didn't dare pull away.

Only when the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the air did Simon Moore finally extinguish the pipe, knocking it heavily on the table. He stood up, extending two fingers on his right hand, yellowed from smoke. "Two things. First, never mention her identity again. Second, get out of Huangpu—go as far as you can. Don't let me see you again!"

The night rain fell steadily, and the once-bustling French Concession seemed a bit desolate under this unexpected autumn shower. Yet one place still blazed with lights and revelry: the Blue Moulin, a cabaret opened by the French businessman Belmondo. Though it had only been open for half a year, it had already attracted the attention of all the French Concession's elite, with dignitaries and celebrities coming to enjoy themselves almost every night. Half a month ago, the singer Grace Young, freshly returned from studying in France, began performing here. Her enchanting voice and dazzling dance moves quickly captivated the upper crust of the French Concession. Normally, no matter how talented a new performer was, it would be impossible to become famous in Huangpu in just half a month. But she had powerful backing.

Simon Moore had practically bought out all the influential newspapers in Huangpu, running front-page headlines about her every day. With such an intense publicity campaign, Grace Young's name quickly became widely known, her rise to fame nothing short of meteoric. Her extraordinary beauty attracted many admirers, and naturally also drew the attention of ambitious men who wanted to get close to her—or even possess her. But most only dared to think about it. No one had the guts to act, unless they no longer cared about their future in the French Concession, or were simply tired of living.

At 9:30 p.m., two rickshaws stopped in front of the Blue Moulin. The first to step out was Logan Reed, dressed in a black suit, a bowler hat, and a black overcoat. He was tall and elegant. Next came the blind man Derek Andrews, wearing a camel-colored suit—though it didn't fit, the front buttons couldn't be fastened, leaving his protruding belly exposed and especially conspicuous.

Even at night, the blind man wore sunglasses—not for show, but because his vision became especially sharp in the dark, allowing him to see clearly in the night. The downside was that he was sensitive to bright light. When God opens a door for you, He always closes a window; nothing in this world is perfect.

While Logan Reed was lighting a cigarette, the blind man fished out some coins to pay the fare. When one of the rickshaw pullers, after receiving the coins, still held out his hand, the blind man snapped, "What? Not enough?"

"Sir, carrying you is like carrying two people..."

"Want me to beat you up?" The blind man raised his fist, glaring with his small round eyes. The money was secondary—what he couldn't stand was being mocked for his weight.

Logan Reed had already pulled out a few more coins and handed them to the rickshaw puller, then grabbed the blind man and headed toward the entrance.

The blind man was still grumbling, "I can't stand these people who judge you by your fat." That was his own twist on the saying.

Logan Reed stuffed his half-smoked cigarette into the blind man's mouth. The blind man took a puff, then suddenly remembered something and spat it out with a "ptooey!" The cigarette butt traced a graceful arc through the night air and landed squarely on the uniform of a young military officer.

The young officer wore a yellow-green uniform, a matching wool overcoat, and shiny black high boots. His black lambskin gloves and upright, heroic figure were wrapped up tightly, and even his pale, stern face was shadowed by the brim of his stiff military cap. He paused, looked down at the spot on his chest dirtied by ash, and frowned in disgust.